Upon A Midnight Clear
by Rogue Force
Summary: G.I. Joe seeks a series of airstrikes in retribution for Cobra attacks using advanced aircraft that seem to be unstoppable but Cobra quickly begins to find ways to make the exotic aircraft just as frail as the birds they share the skies with.


Disclaimer: Most of the characters, vehicles, and organizations in are not owned but they arthor but by Hasbro. The views and interpertations of characters are solely those of the stories' arthor

Arthors Note: This story is a solo work by Josh Davis, one of the two Rogue Force writers and while it is a stand alone story, it takes place in the same continuity as the Rogue Force characters and events. For faithful readers of the Rogue Force stories, this story takes place in the same time frame as the Murphy's Law story. The back drop for this story is a homage to the Dale Brown books but is by no means intented to copy on Mr. Brown's works.

Upon A Midnight Clear

Chapter 1

The image displayed on the large television pitched downward sharply as the gun camera of the Ghoststriker multi-role fighter followed its prey into a steep dive which brought the chaos below into view. While the image of the enemy Rattler close air support aircraft never strayed from the center of the screen, the image of a large scale armor and infantry battle raged a scant two thousand feet below the two aircraft. As the Cobra jet tried in vain to out maneuver its pursuer, a diamond shaped icon slowly worked its way towards the box icon that engulfed the image of the Rattler.   
"Alpha Golf One-Zero! Foxtrot Four!" A voice cried out over the speaker in the darkened room as the diamond and box finally aligned over the aircraft. In that same moment a streak of movement appeared from the edge of the camera's focus and ate away the distance between the two aircraft within the blink of an eye. There was a flash as the warhead of the small but lethal AIM-9 Sidewinder air-to-air missile detonated a short distant behind the Rattler's starboard wing engine. The relatively small explosion quickly blossomed into a large fireball as the fuel and ordinance on and in the aircraft's wing was destroyed under the power of the heat-seeking missile. "Alpha Golf One-Zero! Splash six!" The same voice from earlier called out joyously as the image on the screen banked away sharply from the sight of the fragments of the once proud war machine tumbling unceremoniously towards the ground below. As the XF-16F advanced fighter finally started to level out of its high speed banking move, the camera started to center itself on another Rattler that was pulling up from a strafing run on some unseen target below. Almost immediately the image of the Cobra aircraft was marked with a box icon before it went into a hard bank accompanied with a steep climb, causing the diamond icon to struggle to keep up with the image of the enemy attack jet. The image pitched upwards sharply as the pursuing Ghoststriker mimicked the Rattler's move, allowing the diamond to drift towards the aircraft with a satisfyingly quickened pace.  
Without warning, the hostile aircraft suddenly leveled out and lost all speed, seeming to hang in the air directly in front of the camera. "Holy shit!" The pilot's voice screamed as the sight of the dark blue aircraft seemed to fill the sky ahead of the Ghoststriker. "We're gonna hit!" A different voice cried as the dorsal turret on the spine of the Rattler opened up and began to spit a stream of tracers leapt from the twin machine guns and began to track towards the camera's origin point. Just as it seemed that a mid-air collision would destroy the images on the screen the camera seemed to stop, the firing of the tracers the only thing that confirmed that the video feed was still active. With only the cloudless sky in the background of the picture, there was nothing to confirm movement but the Rattler seemed to move away from the camera at a very swift rate while somehow staying the center of the camera.   
"Damn, that was a nice move." A feminine voice from somewhere within the dimly lit room said after a low whistle escaped her lips.  
With the box and diamond icons still firmly mated together, another flash of movement appeared at the edge of the screen's line of sight. However, instead of an impressive fireball, the Rattler came to life once again as the aircraft snapped over from what appeared to be an almost dead stand still and begin to spit forth several clouds of metal from under its airframe. "Motherfucker!" The familiar voice called out again over the room's speakers as the contrail of the Sparrow missile failed to follow the Rattler in its barrel rolling escape move and instead tracked into the chaff storm before detonating in a dull and harmless fireball. As the camera struggled to regain sight of the Cobra jet, a second Ghoststriker appeared almost out of nowhere and positioned itself above and behind the elusive pilot.  
The hostile aircraft when into a slow bank and gentle dive but in a seemingly unwise move, the second Ghoststriker pitched down sharply in a fast and hard dive, both the downward movement and the sudden thrust the pilot had thrown the engine into causing the Joe aircraft to go far below the Cobra jet. In an unexpected move, the second Ghoststriker's true intentions were revealed as it ceased its feinted disengagement and angled sharply upwards while accelerating the XF-16F to its limits. The off-guard Cobra jet attempted to break away, realizing its error in attempting to sucker the Joe fighter into following it and began to roll away from the swiftly approaching aircraft. The attempted escape only served to expose the more thinly armored dorsal areas of the Rattler as the Ghoststriker opened up its M-61 20mm Vulcan cannon and stitched a long scar of holes from the port wing engine along the wing and airframe before finally ending its destructive trail at the dorsal engine of the enemy aircraft. Almost instantly after the shells had impacted, both of the hit engines started to trail thick smoke and fire as the Rattler was yanked hard to it's port side. "Alpha Golf Zero-Two. Splash nine." A different and stone cold calm voice called out over the speakers as the second Ghoststriker disappeared from the camera's view. Within seconds of the departure of its killer, the canopies on the crippled Cobra jet blew away, allowing two figures to eject clear of the dead aircraft.   
"I love this part." The same voice of the original Ghoststriker's pilot said proudly from the confines of the room.  
On the screen, the gun camera's view pulled away from the downed bandit as the room's speakers crackled to life. "Weasel's been hit!' A frantic voice called out.   
"Get a grip Simpson! You've got to take over the command!" An only slightly calmer female voice returned.  
"Fools!" A third voice with an oriental accent snapped angrily. "You are transmitting on UHF guard!"   
The room filled with laughter that was abruptly ceased as the lights snapped on, causing someone to shut off the television screen as the small group of nine fliers in the room snapped to attention. Despite the actions of the other flight suit clad people in the room, one female pilot failed to stand, only leaning back in her chair and shaking her head as a grin worked its way over her features.  
"God people," The older pilot standing in the doorway said with a sigh as he ran a hand through his close cropped red hair. "How many times do I have to tell you to not do that shit to me?"  
"I think the leaf scares 'em boss." The lone female flyer responded playfully as she swung her brown eyes in line with the major.  
"Well if I'd known it was your geriatric ass, I just would've given you the finger when you opened the door." A younger pilot retorted with a smirk which only caused the major to shake his head. As the older flier started to stride into the viewing room, the pilots that made up his squadron started to take their seats once more.   
"How much have we covered so far Dean?" The major asked as he reached the head of the small room.  
"We've gone alphabetically sir. We finished Aldrigde's and were almost finished with Boyajian's tape." A short but well built black pilot who also wore the insignia of a major reported.  
"First off, quit callin' me sir." The squadron commander said as he rested his lean form against a podium at the head of the room. "Secondly, I want to hear what everyone's thoughts were on Aldrigde..." The major trailed off as the door at the rear of the room opened once again and a stocky MP passed into the viewing room.  
"Excuse me, sir. But the general needs to see you and Slip Stream in his office right away sir." The specialist said in an apologetic tone.  
  
  
"Send them in right away Sergeant Barkin." Hawk spoke into the telephone, waiting for a quick response of compliance from his secretary before setting the receiver back in its cradle. As the door to his office began to open, the general made no attempt either draw himself up to his full sitting height or retighten the tie on his Class B uniform shirt, perfectly at ease with the thought of his men seeing a fellow serviceman instead of a bureaucratical machine. Once the two pilots had entered the room, he quickly sized both men up, refreshing his memory on the men. Both of the flight suit clad fliers had been blessed with lean bodies and average height, which coupled along with their astonishing reflexes mentioned in their medical files, made both of them ideal pilots. This mission would push both that theory and their training to their limits, but that was why they were selected. They were the best pilots currently at Hawk's disposal. The general broke free of his daze as the two pilots stopped in front of his desk, each one locking themselves up in ridged positions of attention before popping up crisp salutes.  
"Be seated." Hawk said in an almost causal tone as he returned their salutes and motioned to the two chairs opposite his own. As the two had settled into the seats, the general mentally smiled at how even with their weight resting on the padded leather, they still had their backs ram-rod straight and kept their limbs from fully relaxing. He considered telling them with no amount of authority to lighten the hell up but such comments from generals tended to only make servicemen more edgy. Quickly dismissing the idea, he moved on the points of what this little meeting was all about. "You two are both damn fine pilots. Hell, you're both most likely the best with perhaps the exception of Skystriker and Thunderbird. You both looked real sharp at the Armory and your actions there made a big difference in saving a lot of lives on the ground." Hawk paused and let the look of pride in both of the pilot's eyes shine for a moment before the general leaned a little further back into his chair and adopted a more serious tone of voice. "It's because of those skills that I've selected you to be a part of a mission that's of critical importance. If you want to know how important, let me put it to you this way; even I don't know all the details of this operation. No single individual does." Hawk let the gravity of that comment sink in, its possible repercussions immediately wiping the prideful looks out of the eyes of his men.  
"I can't even give you all the details of your mission here. All I'm authorized to tell you at this moment is that you are both to change into civilian clothes and pack a small travel bag with one change of clothes and your essentials. Then you'll catch an unmarked van to the Richmond International Airport and take a flight to Las Vegas." The general said in a carefully paced voice, making sure that the two men caught all of the details he was allowed to give to them.  
"It's that all you can tell us, sir?" The older pilot, Ghostrider, asked in a respectful but quizzical tone after he had taken a quick confused looked at the younger pilot, Slip Stream.  
"That's all." Hawk offered as almost apologetic look started to creep its way onto his powerful features. The general then unceremoniously scooped up and up turned a large envelope that had been setting a top his desk, allowing two civilian airline tickets to drop into his hand. "Good luck. Dismissed." He finished as he slid the two tickets across the desk to the two pilots. Both of the fliers quickly stood and popped up salutes once more, which were met with an equally snappy salute from Hawk before his subordinates retrieved the tickets from the desk and vacated the office.  
"You're going to need all of it you can get." The general added softly after the door had closed behind his two men.   
  
  
"I hate this cloak and dagger shit." Slip Stream said in a disdainful tone as he absent mindedly tapped a rolled up copy of Penthouse against his thigh. The adult magazine was one of the younger pilot's more uncommon 'essentials' that he'd brought along on their flight from Virginia to Nevada, and had been flipping through until the sun finally went down just over two hours ago.   
"You know that's about the sixth time you've said words to that effect since we got here?" Ghostrider asked rhetorically as he once again scanned his eyes around the unlit aircraft parking ramp. The ramp was located in front of an isolated and apparently empty hangar that had been marked with a logo for the Air South West charter company. The name of the company had been written on a small slip of paper that had been carefully placed inside his own airline ticket and was their only clue of any action upon their arrival in Las Vegas. They'd arrived at the airport and quickly sought out the company's hangar, only to find that either no one was around or that they were ignoring the increasingly violent knocks on the various doors of the hangar.   
"Yeah I know, but this is annoying the piss out of me. First it was all James Bondish and I was gettin' kinda excited and everything, but then nobody shows up for hours." The younger pilot said in frustration before unrolling the magazine and staring down at it with an equally annoyed look on his features. "Then to add insult to injury, the sun goes down and they don't even turn any lights on. Pay the fuckin' electric bill once in a while you bastards!" He cried out to no one at the top of his lungs.  
"You really need help Greg." Ghostrider said as he stifled a laugh at his subordinate's only half-serious outburst. The veteran pilot would ever admit it but he was just annoyed as Slip Stream at the almost comical level of secrecy that was being used in this operation. A smile came to his lips as the situation caused him to remember a button his wife got him once that read 'My job is so secret, even I don't know what I'm doing.' The recollection quickly began to lead to series of fond memories of his loving wife and their spunky little eight year old daughter currently at an apartment in Aurora near their hometown of Chicago. They'd moved their after he had be 'reassigned' from his position with the 52nd Tactical Fighter Wing in Germany and from the look of his new unit his family would be without him for some time to come. Before his train of thought could turn sour at the possibilities of hardly ever seeing his family again, he heard the tell-tale sound of shoes impacting against the tarmac.   
"Joe? Greg?" A voice called out in a polite and almost excited tone. The voice was quickly given a face as a powerfully built man clad in blue jeans and a L.A. Raiders team jacket appeared and extended his hand. "I'm Ray with Air South West charter flights."  
Ghostrider took the man's hand and shook it firmly, noting that both the man's hair and mustache were both cut to military specifications and he was in great physical shape for just another working stiff. The veteran pilot had little doubt that 'Ray' was their contact for the next step of the operation and instantly let the corners of his mouth raise, breaking his cautious facial expression. Slip Stream quickly followed suit and thankfully held his tongue for any sarcastic comments that he might wish to make.  
"Now if you'll follow me, we'll get your Lights of Las Vegas air tour underway." Ray said while he headed for a small personnel door of the hangar that had at some point opened without either of the two Joe pilots realize it. As the trio of men walked towards the hangar, the lack of light inside the squat metal structure and the sound of motors starting to slowly work the main doors open, erased almost any doubt as to the circumstances of Ray's sudden arrival.  
As the they passed through the personnel door the whine of several small aircraft engines started to slowly crescendo as the power plants cycled up to their idle power. With moonlight starting to stream in through the slowly expanding hangar mouth, the outlines of a lone aircraft was seen parked in the middle of the otherwise practically bare building. The aircraft appeared to be a small and unassuming civilian private jet, most likely of the Learjet or Gulf Stream series. With the steady approach of the trio, the air-stair doorway of the plane opened, filtering light into the surrounding area, while the cabin windows remained blackened and the cockpit windows only emitted the faint glow of aviation instruments. Whoever they were, they were being extremely careful, the veteran pilot noted mentally as they reached and ascended the steps into the private jet. As soon as they stepped aboard the aircraft they noticed a man blocking entry into the cockpit's privacy curtain that was clad in an unmarked but obviously Air Force issue flight suit while his right hand was firmly holding onto the pistol grip of a MP5 9mm submachine gun. As the two Joe pilots were directed to a pair of swivel bucket seats, Ghostrider felt it was safe to stay that they had just reached phase two of the operation.  
"Sorry about that, sirs." Ray said without the previous and obvious false giddiness after he'd firmly closed and locked the cabin door. "But we had to cross check your identities and confirm that you weren't being followed. It's SOP for anyone coming to the playhouse for the first time." The man said with a shrug of his board shoulders.  
"The playhouse?" Slip Stream asked with a look of confusion fixing itself on his face as the armed man disappeared into the cockpit and the aircraft began to creep forward.   
"You'll find out soon enough Lieutenant." Ray said with a nod of his head.  
"Well, in the mean time, can we know exactly who you are?" Ghostrider asked as he leaned closer to the seat opposite his that Ray had plopped unceremoniously into.  
"Captain Raymond C. Yarber, United States Air Force Security Forces." Ray responded simply as the private jet began to go through a series of slow turns as it began to taxi towards some unseen runway. The same generous coat of black paint that kept cabin activity secret, also kept the passengers from knowing the direction of travel. Ghostrider smiled mentally as that revelation hit him. Apparently the masterminds behind that particular security feature didn't know that one of their current passengers had once limped a crippled F-4D Phantom II back to base at night over a jungle with no instruments and a wounded back seater. The veteran pilot had paid attention on his walk from the terminal to the supposed charter hangar, in his mind he knew exactly which taxi way the plane was currently moving along.  
Within a short span of time, the aircraft had finally reached its runway and, after a smooth but quick take off that said a lot to Ghostrider about the skill of the private jet's pilot, the plane lifted free of the ground. As the flight dragged on the veteran pilot quickly tuned himself out to the repeated and unsuccessfully attempts on Slip Stream's part to coax more information out of Captain Yarber and instead let his thoughts roam as much as possible without losing the awareness required to mentally trace the aircraft's heading and most likely location. The aircraft had indeed headed towards Las Vegas at first but had eventually dropped altitude and headed towards Nellis Air Force Base. Once near Nellis, the aircraft made several deceptive turns over the air base and the Red Flag training grounds before finally dropping further to what had to be a nap of the earth terrain following flight profile and maintaining a steady heading. With the lack of sudden altitude and heading changes, Ghostrider felt confident that the plane was on its true course. Which put the aircraft over nothing but empty desert for mil-  
The veteran pilot's train of though immediately derailed as it hit him like a wrecking ball. The secrecy. The heading. It couldn't be. But it had to be.  
"Groom Lake." Ghostrider said just above his breath in a tone that seemed more fitting to sacrilege or traitorous thoughts than a simple destination guess.  
"Ain't it cool?" Yarber said as an extremely wide grin played across his features.  
"Holy shit!" Slip Stream yelled out in disbelief. "Groom Lake as in Area 51, Dreamland, take-your-wings-and-shove-'em-up-your-ass-if-you-fly-over-it Groom Lake?"   
"Yeah, the exact same one." Yarber confirmed matter of factly as if he were saying something as mundane as mentioning the pleasantness of the weather.   
The veteran pilot leaned back heavily in his seat, almost literally too weak to move as the reality of it came crashing down on him. They were all sorts of rumors about the dry bed of Groom Lake near Las Vegas. They ranged from something as believable as a testing facility for captured Soviet aircraft or super secret experimental aerospace projects; to ideas as radical as a complex for storage and research of honest-to-god space alien UFOs and their unearthly crew members. However regardless of whether or not you believed any of the rumors, there was no denying that flying into the airspace above the dry lake bed was the quickest way known to mankind to lose your wings, your credibility, and a large chunk of your ass that would be taken out in the harshest debriefing of your life. It was no surprise to Ghostrider that the remained of the flight passed in complete and deafening silence. Despite the disbelief many people had in the existence of anything at Groom Lake, the private jet ended up touching down on a very real runway.  
After a fairly long taxi time, the aircraft finally came to a stop as the engines winded down to their idle power. Before any of the individuals in the private jet had even begun to raise from their seats, the cabin door swiftly lowered and admitted a security forces airman that was clad in desert scheme BDUs along with its full compliment of combat gear. Without a word spoken by anyone, Yarber displayed an ID badge while the guard carefully swept the small cabin of the aircraft with the barrel of his M-16. After a few quick moments of visually searching the aircraft, the airman relaxed his muscles somewhat and swung the muzzle of his weapon out of line with the trio and gave a curt nod to Yarber.   
"You're cleared to proceed to hangar seven, sir. The project staff is assembled their and awaiting your arrival." The security forces airman said in an equally curt tone of voice.  
"Excellent." Came the one word response of the captain as he stood and walked to the cabin door, signaling the two Joe pilots to follow him. As Ghostrider stood and made his way to the doorway, his eyes traveled to a small section of the ground that was faintly illuminated by the light filtering out of the private jet's cabin door and caught the image of a cracked and grainy dirt surface that was common to many dry lake beds. The veteran pilot thought nothing of the earth under the aircraft until his feet left the air-stairs and fell onto the supposed dry lake bed below. The ground felt too firm and evenly graded to be anything naturally occurring, which caused Ghostrider to squat down and run his hand across the 'dirt', ignoring the odd looks he received from two more armed security forces airmen that flanked the cabin entrance.   
"That's right." Yarber said as he turned around and flashed a grin at the veteran pilot. "It's tarmac. The camouflage is hand painted to match the surrounding ground in an effort to prevent Soviet spy satellites from getting a complete an accurate picture of the layout of the base. Maintence teams come out just before dawn every morning and repaint spots that have picked up landing gear marks in order to keep the camouflage as complete as possible."  
"Jesus." Slip Stream sighed after emerging from the aircraft and noticing that complete darkness stretched out for miles and miles, the stars above seeming to be only light source for the complex. "Is paying the light bill against your religion or something?"   
"Actually this whole area is bathed in light right now." Yarber stated matter of factly as he withdrew several chemical lights from under his team jacket and snapped them loudly before dividing them up among the group. "It's just that all the lights here are either IR or UV. Makes it hard as hell for anyone without the type of goggles issued to our guards to see. Plus it seems to help the dogs out a lot."   
"Dogs?" Slip Stream asked quizzically as the trio began to move forward, the sickly green glow of the chemical lights enveloping them and providing the faintest of a light source for their eyes to be guided by.  
"Yeah, part of the security here involves letting specially trained Dobermans run wild when no one is supposed to be present on the flight line. They're mean as hell and as quiet as the dead thanks to their laryngectomy operations. You wouldn't even know they were there till they pounced."  
"They're not out here now are they?" Ghostrider asked as a deathly serious look flashed in his eyes.  
"We were on the roster and right on time. They should have been recalled." Yarber said with a seemingly light-hearted shrug of his wide shoulders. "If they weren't then we're fucked."  
As an almost eerie silence dropped over the group, they traveled a few more paces to pair of tan colored HMMWV utility vehicles which were also guarded by a pair of airman that were loaded for bear. As more of the HMMWVs became visible, Ghostrider noticed a skirting of broom like bristles that completely surrounded the wheel wells of the vehicles.   
"What's with the skirting?" Ghostrider asked as he nodded in the direction of the odd looking additions to the HMMWVs.   
"They're designed to help obscure any tracks left by the vehicles if they have to leave the tarmac or roads on the base. But just be on the safe side, the same maintence detail that repaints the tarmac also fills in any deep track marks that get left on the actual ground of the lake bed." The captain said as he opened the rear door of one of the HMMWVs to admit the pair of Joe pilots. After the fliers had slid into the vehicle's rear seats, Yarber trotted around to passenger side door and climbed in next to the airman in the driver seat. With a wordless nod to the airman by the captain, the driver pulled a pair of high-tech looking goggles over his eyes before pressing the vehicle's starter button and lurching off towards some unseen destination. After a relatively short and silent ride, the HMMWV came to a stop at a raised section of the lake bed that could have been an island eons ago. As Yarber exited, the Joe fliers followed suit, but the veteran pilot immediately walked towards the 'hill' as a grin crept onto his face. Without explaining anything to the smiling captain or the confused looking lieutenant, the major ran his hand across the surface. Ghostrider's grin broadened as his hand felt a cool, hard, and definitely not organic wall. After a quick visual inspection of what little of the rise's outline was visible, the veteran pilot looked to his teammate and offered a confident nod.  
"It's an aircraft hangar." The major said in a matter of fact tone.  
"Is anything around here not fake?" Slip Stream asked Yarber with a shake of his head.  
"Not really." Came the simple and almost toying response of the captain.  
Without any visible searching or guidance, Yarber reached out to the surface of the uniquely camouflaged hangar and applied a firm pressure that cause a hinged panel to swing inward and expose a numerical keypad. After the captain had punched a string of buttons in rapid-fire succession that ended up forming a twenty digit code number, a series of dull metallic clicking noises were heard that were apparently coming from inside the false hill. As the initial sound ended, it was quickly replaced with a heavy grinding noise that grew louder as a section of the surface that was roughly the size of a set of double doors, began to telescope into the adjacent sections of the hangar's camouflage. The opening of the personnel doors revealed a long and stark white corridor in front of them that was slightly narrower than the entrance itself.  
"Single file." Yarber said in a monotone voice as he walked into the corridor. "It's a giant x-ray scanner and metal detector. Going in a column makes the task easier on the guards that man this equipment and it's a quick way of identifying possible hostiles."  
Both the Joe pilots only nodded their assent as they fell into step behind the captain, their footsteps echoing with all the effect of gunshots as they entered the bright corridor. In a move that didn't surprise Ghostrider at all, the heavy doors began to close behind them once all three were more than a sprint's distance from the entrance, effectively trapping them in the narrow corridor. Even Slip Stream seemed to be getting wise to the great lengths of security that the complex had, which was evident in his lack of any reaction at all when the doors locked back into place. As the trio finally came to a halt at the far end of the corridor, which looked to be a dead end, Yarber again applied a firm pressure to a seemingly random section of the wall which gave way to reveal yet another numerical keypad. After another twenty digit code and the new addition of swiping an identification badge through an electronic card reader, the captain looked up to an unassuming section of the side wall and held the ID badge out once more.  
"Quincy, It's Yarber, I'm here with the pilots for the Wraith Operation. Code word for the day is Prometheus." The captain spoke in a clear and even voice which was followed within a few long moments of several locks sounding out before a section of the 'dead end's' wall swung inward and caused Yarber to step into the room beyond, motioning for the pilots to follow suit. As the veteran pilot emerged into the small room, two fully armed airman clad in anti-NBC warfare MOPP suits greeted the trio by training the muzzles of their Remington Model 870 shotguns at the newcomers. The captain didn't seemed alarmed in the slightest by the show of hostility, and casually made his way over towards a booth where a third airman sat enclosed in an area that resembled the ticket office at almost every movie theater across the country.  
"Give me your IDs. Get against the wall." The security forces NCO behind the thick plexiglass of the booth commanded in curt words as his hand hovered over a button that looked as if it couldn't possibly have a good function. Yarber immediately slipped his security badge, military ID card, and a Montana driver's license through a narrow slot in the plexiglass of the booth. The sight caused both of the pilots to also slip any form of picture identification they had through the hole before joining the captain with his legs spread and hands pressed against the opposite wall. For what felt like a half-hour to Ghostrider, the MOPP clad airman patted down the trio, not only searching for weapons but also withdrawing any item they found and inspecting it thoroughly before their gas mask muffled voices called out a detailed description of the item, allowing the NCO in the booth to catalog the report into a computer at his work station.  
"Alright. You're free to go, sirs." The NCO's voice finally announced over the small intercom after the several long moments of being uncomfortably searched ended. As the MOPP clad airman returned to their original positions and brought their weapons to bear on the false wall that lead back to the x-ray corridor, a heavy looking door on the opposite wall of the antechamber started to slowly swing open on its large hydraulic hinges. The room beyond was hardly a room at all, more of a wide but short hallway, with its only other feature being yet another stout blast door. Yarber had already begun to stride purposefully towards the door, which quickly caused the two pilots to trail in his wake before the trio came to a stop inside the small passage way. Almost as soon as Slip Stream, at the rear of the group, had passed through the doorway, the door to the guard chamber started to cycle into its closed position again. A few long heartbeats later, the door locked itself into place with a dull and reverberating sound of metal that had all the effect of a casket lid being closed. Ghostrider swore that a thousand heartbeats yet only one breath passed during the impossibly long minute that was spent wordlessly in the airlock-like room before the sound of the inner door's hydraulics filled the air like thunder. As the heavy door slowly cycled open, the veteran flier could all but hear the rendition of 'Thus Spake Zarathustra' that had unintentionally found its way into his thoughts. As the view of the massive hangar beyond became more revealed, any words that either of the two pilots might have wished to say were totally torn away from their minds as their eyes widened at the centerpieces of the human activity in the building.  
Despite the large numbers of ceiling lamps that burned down harshly on the enclosed hangar, the two crafts that were housed in the hangar seemed to almost literally suck in the light of the room like some manufactured black hole. The two completely black aircrafts were neither a size fitting a fighter or bomber, instead seeming like a lethal compromise between the two extremes. The aircrafts themselves resembled nothing common to most military aircraft of the day; as not a single angle could be detected any where on the rounded edges of its tear drop shaped form. In fact, the aircrafts' only protruding surfaces other than its currently extended landing gear were a pair of vertical stabilizers towards the tail of the aircraft, but even those were curved inward and kept close to the body the airframe. The body itself appeared to be eerily seamless and almost bowling ball smooth, with no visible pylons or cannon ports to even hint as to it being a combat aircraft. For a moment it even seemed to lack engines until a keener observation revealed a seemingly solid part of the airframe to actually be a tight mesh of material covering a good portion of the aircraft's spine just aft of the cockpit. To match the cleverly hidden and unusually placed intake were two narrow slits at the tail of the aircraft which were also covered in the odd net-like material. All of the oddities of the aircraft came to together to form the single most demonic looking aerial creation of man that Ghostrider had ever seen. To say he was impressed would have been the understatement of the century.  
The veteran pilot had been so enthralled by the mere presence of the aircraft that he didn't even realize that he'd walked out of the small hallway and into the hangar, as if not only the light but he himself was being drawn unexplainably to the dark, seamless airframe. The almost sleepwalking-like daze was finally broken as an unfamiliar voice called out to him.  
"I see it has that effect on you too, Major Jeffries." The voice called out in a half-amused tone with the faintest hint of a Bostonian accent. Ghostrider reluctantly turned his eyes from the sight the aircraft to see the tall and lean figure of a black man in clad in desert BDUs who would have passed for any common serviceman if not for the two stars that were positioned at the location of his rank insignia. The veteran pilot started to bring his right hand in a salute but was stopped as the general offered his hand and a warm smile. "I'm Major General Gabe Vaughn, commander of the Advanced Development Aerospace Center, or MADASP. Don't ask me what the hell the 'M' or the 'P' stand for or what the hell happed to the 'C'; it's just something some paper pusher came up with to make us sound important to the stiffs on the hill. The running gag right now is Mysterious Assholes Depriving America of Spending Power." A cough interrupted him from saying more as a previously unnoticed woman in an unmarked set of desert BDUs stepped forward and nodded to Ghostrider.  
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Major." The small framed woman said in a soft but determined voice before adjusting her wire framed glasses and continuing on. "I'm Doctor Alyssa Bradley, head of the XFB-19X Skyshadow project. They told us you were the best combat pilot available."  
"Well that's a big thing to have to live-" Ghostrider started before being cut off by General Vaughn.  
"No false modesty or bullshit claims here, Major. That's one of my few personal conduct rules here. You and your partner are taking these mean motherfuckers into combat in three days. You'd better be the best." The general stated in a completely serious tone that made the veteran pilot instantly start to wonder about what he'd landed himself and Slip Stream into.


End file.
